Broken Mirrors
by IMightBeWriter
Summary: On a whim, the Winchesters had asked Crowley for help. But things didn't turn out quite as they expected them to. De-aged fic of sorts!


**Title: **Broken Mirrors

**Author: **IMightBeWriter

**Summary: **On a whim, the Winchesters had asked Crowley for help. But things didn't turn out quite as they expected them to. De-aged fic!

**Author's Note: **Just like before, I still don't own anything but the plot. This story takes place in early S7, right after "It's Time For A Wedding". I had the random urge to write a new story, and this is what happened.

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

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><p>The family-orientated diner had a warm and welcoming feel to it as soon as you stepped foot through the glass door. Rich brown leather cushioning covered the booths. Booths that surrounded thick oak circular tables so smooth that the chance of the wood chipping seemed near impossible. The four walls were painted a comforting dark blue, decked out with pictures of past food competitions and memorable birthday snapshots featuring the smiling faces of both staff and costumer alike. It was all of these small, usually unimportant, details that made you instantly relax when you walked into the place. That is, unless you were Dean and Sam Winchester.<p>

From an outsider's point of view, more so through the eyes of a local civilian that knew everyone in the small town, the situation might have looked strange enough to take a second glance at. Two men sat on either side of a booth, tucked away in the far corner of the room and whispering to each other in hushed, low voices. They were both visibly upset about something, but the most peculiar thing about them was their table. Salt. Three shaker fulls dumped carelessly onto the oak tabletop in a large pile beside the empty ketchup-stained plates.

Sam knew how strange it looked, if only for the curious, if not a little wary, glances sent by other customers passing by their table to use the restroom. His brother, Dean, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice nor care what any of the other customers might have thought.

"Look, all I'm saying is we need to be prepared for anything." he warned. Moss green eyes scanned the perimeter of the booth, as if waiting for something unexpected to pop out, before they were back on Sam again. "You know how he works. If he's not gonna benefit from it, he's not interested."

Sam let out a soft sigh. "Yeah, I know. But he said he would help us out after what happened in Nevada. He owes us."

"Don't care. I still don't trust him." Dean answered with a shake of his head.

"Neither do I." Sam agreed, looking a tad bit uneasy at the idea himself. "But who's better to look into it for us?"

Dean, of course, started to list every possible alternative that came to mind almost immediately. "There are other ways though, Sam. We could do it on our own. Ask around. Find a library. Or a professor. Hell, we've got Bobby. He's bound to know something."

Sam rolled his eyes. It was like arguing with a brick wall. When Dean was right, Dean was right. The only thing that could change his opinion was being proved wrong, which at this point, Sam wasn't quite so sure about either. Because what if Dean really _was_ right about this one?

Sam opened his mouth to form some sort of reply, only to be cut short by the sound of expensive leather scuffling along the polished floor, and then a voice much different from his own.

"Ah, Dean, Sam. Good to know I'm still the topic of your..._fascinating_ conversations."

It was a distinctive voice. A voice they'd come to know very well.

"Crowley." Dean greeted in a far less-than-welcoming tone, offering the demon a dangerous scowl. "Didn't think you'd show."

"Of course I'd show." Crowley answered, not at all fazed by the negative response to his presence. "Wouldn't want you bumbling idiots running about, mucking up my livelihood, now would I?"

Dean's scowl deepened ever so slightly, accompanied by a quick once over. "You stick out like a sore thumb around here." he snapped to accommodate for the previous jab.

"What can I say? It's how I stand out. Individualize myself." Crowley smirked mockingly, one arm held out to the side while the other ran its hand lightly down the front of the crisp black suit; it clashed horribly with the average wear of the diner goers and attracted more attention than the Winchesters preferred to be subjected to.

In other words, it pissed Dean off. "Well individualize yourself outside."

The pile of salt forgotten (because frankly, it didn't matter. Dean and Sam always carried extra in their pockets just in case), Dean threw some money onto the table and the three men exited the diner. They didn't go very far at all, taking a sharp left into the alleyway beside it, where they could carry out their conversation in privacy.

"What is with you two and leading me off into dark, vacant, disgusting surroundings?" Crowley asked, eying the alley rather distastefully.

Sam ignored the question, barely managing to jump in before Dean could open his mouth and shoot out a snarky remark. "How'd it turn out?"

The King of Hell snapped his fingers and stepped casually to the side, looking down at his hands as if to inspect the imaginary dirt caked underneath his stubby fingernails. Apparently, he was growing bored with the entire situation already. "Piece of cake. Just like I told you. Said package has been found and delivered personally from yours truly. Should I break out the option to gift wrap, or do you just want it as is?"

However, both brothers were too preoccupied staring at what had previously been nothing but the air obscured from their view, eyes wide and mouths agape with comically similar expressions of shock and confusion marring their faces as they both tried to understand what they were looking at.

The boy was staring back at them, his head cocked to the side in silent observation of the two men standing in front of him. His own eyes were wide and childish, flooded with a naive sort of curiosity. Two bright greenish blue orbs, as deep and crystal clear as the Pacific ocean, gazed up at the Winchesters from underneath thick blonde lashes. From the looks of it, and the fact that the top of his head only came up to Crowley's thigh, he was young. Extremely young. Somewhere between the ages of four and six young.

Sam was the first one to break away from the intense stare off, turning his attention back to Crowley. From the tense, demanding tone of his voice, he was definitely _not_ happy. "Explain. Now."

Crowley's smirk grew broader, more confident, as if he knew an important secret that held the answer to everything and anything the Winchesters wanted to know.

He reached down and nonchalantly carded his fingers through the boy's thick sandy tufts of hair, purposely ignoring the flinch his contact received in repose. "Not much to explain, Sam. I told you I would help you out, and I did. It was a bloody massacre down there. Picked through all of it. Couldn't find anything salvageable 'cept this."

"Couldn't find anything salvageable?" Dean repeated the words in sheer disbelief, glaring at the demon with enough ferocity to make the child beside him take a small step back. "You weren't at a damn yard sale, Crowley!"

"No, I wasn't. I was doing you a favor, you little git." Crowley snapped back, his hand slipping out of the boy's hair as he leered closer to the taller man. "What do you expect after three hundred years in Hell? By the time I got down there, there was nothing else left to give you! That is, unless you wanted a few bones that already had the meat gnawed off them!"

The anger slowly drained from Dean's face, which then turned considerably pale, almost as white as a sheet of paper. Whereas Sam just looked like he wanted to start throwing up until his actual stomach was regurgitated. The very thought of what was being implied made the both of them feel strangely akin to the imaginary dirt beneath Crowley's fingernails.

"Exactly!" the Scotsman exclaimed, once again ignoring the boy's flinch, this time at the unnecessarily loud volume of his voice. "There was literally _nothing_ left! You're lucky I found what I did with the state that place was in! I had to call my clean up crew to fix it! It was a mess! There was-"

"Alright!" Dean answered gruffly, raising his own voice to overpower Crowley's. "We friggin' get it, okay? It was a mess, end of story! Stop talking about it!"

Crowley narrowed his eyes at him. "Suppose I could always send it back if you're not satisfied. Usually don't give guarantees, but-"

"No!" Sam was the one to interrupt the demon this time. "No, just- We're just trying to understand what happened to him. How he got...like this." The last few words were spoken with a slight gesture of the hand, thrown in the child's direction.

"Easy." Once again, Crowley's voice took on that mockingly knowing tone. The tone that the Winchesters were starting to grow tired of hearing from him. "That much time spent down there can do a lot to a human being. You both know this well enough. Innocence was the only thing he was able to keep in tact. Everything else was...well, I'm not gonna go through the trouble of repeating myself."

"Crowley," Sam began tensely, lips tightened as if he were trying to keep from doing something he'd regret later on. "I was down there too. So was Dean. Neither of us turned into kids."

"Ah, but you weren't down there long enough, were you?" Crowley responded. "Try thinking back to everything that went on during your time, and then multiply it by ten. Twenty. Hell, go for a hundred if you like. Point is that this is what you're getting. Take it or leave it."

"We'll take it." Dean answered without missing a single beat.

While Sam and Crowley were busy chatting it up, he had been a little more preoccupied having a staring contest with the four-to-six-year-old. Observing him. Watching the muscles of his narrow shoulders coil up at the mention of going back. Catching the hitch in his breath, the sheer panic and terror washing over a face far too childish to even know the meaning of sheer panic and terror. In Dean's eyes, it wasn't a hard decision at all. They couldn't let a little kid end up in Hell. Especially this little kid. It was as plain and simple as choosing to breathe.

Crowley glanced over at Sam, waiting for the curt nod of agreement before his smirk grew into a grin. "Well I must say, it's always a pleasure doing business with you fine gentlemen. But unfortunately, I must be off. Souls to damn, blood to shed, contracts to look over. Never a dull day, my line of work. Anyway, good luck. I have a feeling you're going to need it."

And just like that, the King of Hell had left the alleyway. Boom. Gone. Evaporated right before their eyes. Leaving the Winchesters standing there awkwardly, rigidly, exposed to nothing but the unrelenting and ever curious gaze of the little boy they'd just...mail ordered?

Dean took the first step forward, walking at a carefully measured, slow pace, hands held out in front of him as if he were addressing a wounded animal that would flee or snap if it felt provoked enough. Sam didn't move, knew better than to move, keeping his eyes peeled, watching the scene with an air that made it clear he was putting this moment to memory.

However, the boy remained where he was standing. He didn't try to back up or look for any sort of escape from them. Even when Dean was within reaching distance, merely a short arm's length apart, perfectly capable of touching him, the boy didn't seem at all fazed.

And that wasn't a good thing. It meant that he either knew who they were, or he was so innocent and naive that he didn't know any better. Neither of those options sounded very settling.

Once it was clear that the boy wasn't going anywhere, Dean's body seemed to obtain a mind of its own. His knees bent forward until he found himself positioned in a low crouch, eye to eye with the child, hand stretched out, and fingers curling experimentally around a small shoulder before he could stop them.

Still, the child didn't flinch away from the touch, thus encouraging Dean to continue on with what he was about to say. What he was about to ask. Because it couldn't be him...could it?

"...Adam?"

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><p>The day had been going by fairly fast for a Wednesday.<p>

He'd managed to get most of his work done around the house, do some research on a few different possible cases, and hit the grocery store to restock the fridge all before two o'clock rolled around. The living room was actually clean for once, the study had been reorganized with the books arranged in alphabetical order, the kitchen cupboards had more than dusty plates and stale bags of chips inside them. It was such an amazing feat to actually be done for the day, that you could almost say he was in a good mood.

Or you could almost say he _had_ been in a good mood. Then the personal land line started to ring and he had to chuck any remaining idea of relaxation right out the window. Very few people knew that particular phone number, and the ones that did usually weren't just calling to say hello and ask how he was doing.

Letting out a tired sigh, he placed his beer down on a stack of books he'd been sifting through, did his best to prepare himself for whatever he was about to hear, and then finally picked the phone up after the fourth ring. "Singer."

"Bobby, hey. Are you home?" a familiar voice asked through the receiver.

"Depends on why you're asking." he answered, beady brown eyes squinting suspiciously.

He had a sudden feeling that he did the right thing cleaning up the place. The only time the Winchesters asked if he was home was when they needed somewhere to spend the night. Or four or five nights, depending on the severity of the situation.

Sam paused for a second, taking a breath, which only made Bobby's defenses thicken. Something was wrong. Something was always wrong when it came to the Dean and Sam. But for some reason, it felt different this time. Like whatever it was, whatever Sam was about to tell him, would be so surprising that nothing his mind was already conjuring up would be able to help him expect it.

"No one died, right?" Because he never knew with those two.

"No. No, it's nothing like that." Sam responded, apparently having regained function of his lungs again.

"Then what's it like?" Bobby demanded, raising a brow in spite of the fact that the young man wouldn't be able to see it.

"Look, Bobby..." Sam paused again, clearly trying to think his words through with consideration. "Is it okay if we stop by? Tell you this in person?"

"Why the hell are you asking? You know you idgits are welcome any damn time you want!"

"R-right..." Sam stuttered out. "We'll uh, we'll see you soon then."

Before Bobby could try to squeeze any more information out of him, a recognizable click sounded through the receiver. He cursed. The damn kid hung up on him.

Grumbling under his breath about ungrateful little idgits and something along the lines of "goodbye to you too", the elder hunter placed the phone back onto its cradle and went back to drinking his beer and sifting through his stack of books again.

It was a good thing he got all that work done beforehand. His down time was about to be cut short.

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><p>The low rumble of the Impala's engine was the first thing that made their arrival known. By that time, Bobby had long since abandoned the sanctuary of his study. Instead, he was sitting on the front porch, beer in hand, rocker creaking slowly back and forth as he watched the classic car pull up to his house.<p>

He had to squint because the sun was casting bright rays of luminescent light across the sleek black alloy, making it difficult for him to see the boys as they got out. His mouth curved into a deep frown when Dean was finally close enough for him to notice that he was carrying all the bags. What was wrong with Sam?

"Where's your brother?" Bobby asked, eying Dean suspiciously.

Dean shifted the weight of the duffels around and jerked his head in the general direction of the car. "He's coming."

Sure enough, before Bobby could even ask if Sam was okay, the steady crunch of gravel sounded. However, when his eyes adjusted to the lighting, he noticed that Sam wasn't injured at all. He was walking just fine and dandy, no limp or crutch to be seen. Hell there wasn't even a bruise in sight. Not from what Bobby could tell. Not that Bobby was really paying attention to Sam once he was close enough to inspect. No, his eyes were far too focused on the small sleeping figure that was secured in Sam's arms.

Almost immediately, he looked back at Dean. "Boy, you better start explaining and you better start explaining now."

Dean's eyes widened and he all but dropped the bags. "What? No! No, he's not...that's...Ew! No!"

Bobby wasn't convinced though. The little boy in Sam's arms had an unruly head of sandy blonde hair, freckles splattered lightly across the bridge of his nose, facial features just screaming the name Winchester. "Yeah, well he sure looks a helluva lot like yah."

"Bobby..." Sam cleared his throat, gently hitching the slumbering child up further in his arms to get a more secure grip on him. The little boy instinctively buried his face into Sam's shoulder, legs wrapped loosely around the tall young man's torso. "Do you remember our brother Adam?"

The elder hunter's face took on a fairly intense look of concentration, clearly trying to put the name with a face. It didn't take long for it to click though, and when it did, Bobby's jaw dropped.

"You mean he's...?" he trailed off, staring at the fair haired child in shock as his mind could now see the resemblance. "Balls!"

"Yup." Dean nodded his head, plastering on a sarcastic smile. "My thoughts exactly."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>So, there's the first chapter. It's not beta'd yet so any mistakes are my fault. Nevertheless, I hope you liked it! Please leave me some awesometastic comments! Constructive criticism is always welcome! :D


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